


Hot Buttered Crumpets

by greerwatson



Category: Alice In Wonderland - Lewis Carroll, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Crossover Groups
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-10 01:20:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15280434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/pseuds/greerwatson
Summary: Professor Kirke wangles Lucy an invitation to tea.





	Hot Buttered Crumpets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Artemis1000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1000/gifts).



All good things must come to an end. From the start of their stay with Professor Kirke, the children had known it to be only for the summer.  Susan and Peter, of course, had schools to go to—and Edmund too, since he had started at Peter’s school the previous term.  Lucy was another matter.  Their parents had thought her rather too young to board; and she had been attending a day school.  However, with the bombing in London and the distance of the Professor’s country house from the nearest town, none of the children was sure what plans had been made for her.  It was not until the end of August that Mother wrote to say that she had arranged for Lucy to go and stay with Aunt Alberta.

All the children had vivid memories of visiting the previous summer.  For a day or two, Lucy moped and complained, while the others commiserated (though it has to be admitted that, secretly, they were rather glad to be so much more satisfactorily placed themselves).  Then another letter arrived.  After that, they were too busy for sympathy, for Mother had written to remind them that it was time to start packing.  Under Mrs Macready’s supervision, clean shirts and socks were folded, textbooks stacked, and sports equipment collected from around the house, with each item checked by herself against the school lists.  Then the trunks were sent ahead; and there came the hustle to catch the green bus which wound its way around the country lanes, picking up and letting down until it arrived at the nearest railway station.

That evening, there was a rather nicer tea than usual.  Whether it was the Professor’s idea or Mrs Macready’s Lucy couldn’t say (though she rather suspected it was his, for the housekeeper did not really care for children).  Admittedly, it was not _quite_ as good as the tea she had had with Mr Tumnus on her first day in Narnia, for there was no boiled egg; but then eggs were very rare nowadays, what with the rationing.  However, there was the joy of a whole sausage, as well as half a fried tomato which Lucy had seen ripening on the kitchen window sill.  She shared the meal with the Professor; and both of them ate with real pleasure.

As usual in the last couple of hours before bedtime, she was then left to her own devices.  She found a book to read, and curled up on one of the deep window seats.  It was _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ , which is a very good book; and it was bound with its sequel, _Through the Looking-Glass_ , which made it even better.  In the ordinary way (on a rainy afternoon, say), Lucy would have found it quite engrossing.  Now, though, she could not forget that, in a mere two days, it would be her turn to leave.  Instead of climbing trees and roaming heather hills or exploring the myriad rooms of the Professor’s old house with her brothers and sister, she would have to go and stay in the small town where her cousins lived.  She would spend all autumn and winter at the Scrubbs’.  There would be no sausages _ever_ again, for her aunt and uncle didn’t believe in meat.  Probably she would have to go to the same school as her cousin Eustace; and, in the evenings and on the weekend, there would be no one but Eustace to play with.  She remembered him vividly.  He was a horrid little boy.

Lucy managed not to burst into tears over her borrowed book; but she did weep a bit into the pillow when she went to bed that night.

The next day came reprieve.

It was in the afternoon, after a rather plain luncheon.  In London, the morning post had long since arrived, along with a letter from Aunt Alberta.  It put Mother in something of a quandary.  Finally, she placed a phone call, long distance all the way from the city.  The Professor rang for Ivy to fetch Lucy to his study; and she was allowed to talk for a few minutes.  In silent joy, she heard Mother explain that, completely disregarding their private and prior arrangements, the local billeting officer had taken the Scrubbs’ spare rooms for a family from London.  Aunt Alberta had no choice but to put off Lucy’s visit.

“I suggest you simply stay on in the country with Professor Kirke,” Mother said.  “I’m sure he won’t mind.  And it won’t matter that there’s no suitable school anywhere near, for he can tutor you himself.”

Lucy turned, beaming, to hand the phone back and relay the good news.

The Professor looked more than a little startled behind his beard.  Taking the phone from her a bit gingerly, he looked at it dubiously, and then spoke into it.  “My dear Mrs Pevensie,” he said.  “Do I understand your suggestion correctly?  Lucy hasn’t made a mistake, has she?  I’m afraid it’s quite impossible.  I’m returning to Oxford for the Michaelmas term.  I’ve rooms in college—”

At this point he was interrupted.  Lucy shifted impatiently from one foot to the other, for she could only properly hear one side of the conversation.  Surely, her mother would convince him.  Couldn’t he see that this must be the best idea?

“Being fluent in Latin, Greek, and Sanskrit hardly makes me an expert on lessons suitable for Mixed Infants!” the Professor expostulated; and Lucy winced.

Then he was interrupted again by Mother.  For quite a long while, all Lucy could hear was a squawking sound from London.  It quite overrode the Professor each time he tried again to speak.

Finally, though, he said sharply, “Mrs Pevensie, I couldn’t stay here, in any case!  The Ministry of War has requisitioned the house for some government project.”  With that, he hung up the phone, giving Lucy no chance to say goodbye.

He sent her away—“to amuse yourself”, as he put it (though she was not in the least amused)—and shut himself up in his study.  Quite a while later, he emerged with a letter to the Master of his Oxford college.

 

* * *

 

The note from Professor Kirke delighted Mrs Herrald.  She remembered him well, though it had been years since her late husband had retired, and many more years since Digory Kirke had come to the college as a very new lecturer and been invited, as she invited all the new staff, around to their house for tea and inquisition.  That he was back in Oxford for the start of term was expected; that he wished to call round was much appreciated.  That his country house had been requisitioned was, sadly, not much of a surprise:  it would, she supposed (though she’d never seen it), be just the sort of place to be found suitable.  That he was now living in one of the college’s properties with a young girl who’d been billeted on him last summer was rather more surprising.

 _“Do come round for tea,”_ she wrote back.

He came alone, ate a single unbuttered scone, and drank three cups.  They reminisced about days of yore, when he had been a student and a lecturer rather than an eminent, elderly professor with a regrettable flyaway head of hair and a bushy beard.  They spoke of the current war, and of young men who had died in a different war.  Eventually, he brought up the subject of Lucy.

“She seems to be fitting in reasonably well in her new school,” he said.  “I managed to find a bicycle for her; and she whizzes round on it quite alarmingly.  Her studies progress adequately, as far as I can judge.  On the other hand, although she _says_ she’s made friends—and I’ve no reason to disbelieve it, for she’s a truthful girl—there are things that she really can’t discuss with strangers, nor write in letters to her brothers and sister, who may well have their correspondence checked by the staff at school.”  He paused, a little embarrassed, and admitted that he often worked well into the night and stayed over in his rooms in the college.  “Which leaves her with Betty,” he added, “and not on her own, in case you were worried.  I must say that it was very good of Betty to agree to come south and keep house for me.  She was only one of the maids; but Mrs Macready—my housekeeper—didn’t fancy uprooting herself.  And, of course, the Ministry needs staff to dust and polish just as much as anyone.”

Mrs Herrald nodded politely, wondering whether this was leading somewhere.

“I do make myself available,” said Professor Kirke, “up to a point, anyway.  When I remember.”  He looked rather more embarrassed.  “Unfortunately, I don’t really know how to talk to children.  Any more, I should say.  At least, I suppose ‘any more’ is accurate.  After all, I was a child myself once.”

Mrs Herrald, who recalled him in his youth, had no difficulty believing in his long-gone childhood.  Equally, though, she couldn’t help but recognize that a man of his erudition would talk right over a child’s head, even when they discussed topics of mutual interest.  Lucy’s schoolwork would, she supposed, be the likeliest commonality.

“Can I help?” she asked politely.

“I was hoping,” he began.  Then he stopped, for a long pause that made her wonder.  “Yes,” he said finally.  “I was hoping that you might chat with her.  I think the two of you may find that you share quite a lot you can talk about.”

She was surprised that he should take such a notion.  But, though she pressed upon the matter more than once, he would say no more.  “If she will talk to you, then you will find out,” was all he said.  “But it’s not for me to say.”  Thoughtfully, he added, “One should never tell someone else’s story.”

The next day, the invitation was sent.  Mrs Herrald wrote it on her best notepaper in India ink, sealed the envelope with wax, and sent it round by hand.

 

* * *

 

Lucy was puzzled. Just why had she been invited for tea?  If the Professor had been a guest too, that would have been another matter.  On her best behaviour, she would have answered the usual questions and then sat bored while the grown-ups talked about things and people that no child cares anything about.  However, he had shown her the invitation; and she had taken it and read it for herself.  There was no mistake:  it said very clearly, _“The pleasure of your company, Miss Pevensie,”_ with no mention of “Professor Kirke”.

Despite the Professor’s appearance of absent-minded scholarship, he could (when he wished) pay close attention to detail in the real world.  It occurred to him that she would not know the way; so he accompanied her there.  Furthermore, they left the cottage in plenty of time to walk up St Giles at a leisurely pace suited to his years, yet arrive at Mrs Herrald’s house with a minute or two in hand.  “Though,” he explained, “nowadays she lives entirely on the ground floor, partly because of her legs, but also because she has a family billeted on her upstairs.  However, I shouldn’t think you’ll meet them.”

They turned down a North Oxford side-street and stopped at a large mid-Victorian red-brick house with broad stone steps leading up to a well-polished oak door.  Professor Kirke rapped the knocker boldly. “Mabel’s going a little deaf,” he said.  After a while, the door was opened by an elderly maid in an old-fashioned black dress, a little too long in the skirt, over which was a white apron with a small ruffle.

“She’s in the parlour,” was all Mabel said; but they lingered a moment in the broad hall to take off their coats, which she took over her arm before opening the door to show them in.  As Professor Kirke approached their hostess and greeted her in a very friendly way, Lucy saw that Mrs Herrald was a very old lady indeed, seated in a high-backed wing armchair, against which leaned a heavy gnarled cane.  She had a coif of white hair and a great many wrinkles; her dress, in a faded rose print, was cuffed and collared with narrow bands of lace; and she wore a pearl pin.

As Professor Kirke and Mrs Herrald said their how-de-dos, Lucy took a moment to look round.  Not unexpectedly, the room was full of Victorian bric-a-brac on small tables and shelves, and filling several cabinets.  There was a fireplace with a tiled back and carved mantel, on which were two vases, a large pink seashell, and a gilt clock.  Over it hung a mirror in a curlicued frame.  A bookcase stood on either side.  A large silver tea service proudly occupied a side table.

“And you must be Lucy.”

Her attention swiftly drawn back to her manners, Lucy bobbed a little curtsey—half copied from her dancing lessons in London, and half remembered from balls in Narnia—and took Mrs Herrald’s hand.  It was fine-boned, slightly wrinkled, and spotted with age.  The skin felt frail and soft; and the fingers held scarcely any grip.  Lucy pressed gingerly.  “Pleased to meet you,” she managed.

Mrs Herrald smiled up at her in a welcoming fashion that eased some of Lucy’s nervousness.  Still, she felt a brief panic when Professor Kirke said, “Well, Lucy, enjoy your tea.  I’ll fetch you home at six,” and took his leave.  Then, as he turned, he winked at the old lady—so quickly that Lucy barely saw, but she was sure it was a wink.  Unless, of course, he had got something in his eye.

Lucy sat down.

Mrs Herrald smiled again.  “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked; and then, without waiting for a response, carefully put a cup and saucer in front of each of them.  With her hands shaking a little, she lifted the silver tea pot, and poured.  “Milk?”

“Please,” Lucy said.

The old lady added a modicum of milk, and then (eying her guest’s youth) put in a long slurp extra.  The result was much lighter than her own cup, though not pale enough to be called cambric tea.

She offered Lucy the sugar, but took none herself.

There followed the usual impertinent interrogation (to which, like all children, Lucy was long inured).  How was she doing at school, and what did she like to read, and had she any hobbies?  She answered politely. At one point there was a faint curious squeaking noise from the hall.  It could hardly be a mouse.  Still, just in case, Lucy forbore to bring it to her hostess’s attention; and Mrs Herrald said nothing but pressed on with questions about Susan, Peter, and Edmund, friends at school in London, and the other girls at the new school in Oxford.  It was clear to Lucy that her hostess was trying hard to make polite conversation with a little girl who was a complete stranger.  (Equally, she herself could think of nothing that she could courteously ask of an old lady.)  At the back of her mind, though, she couldn’t help but wonder what Mrs Herrald was to the Professor. A great-aunt or some such?  At any rate, it did seem rather as though he was kindly providing Lucy as company in order to escape utter boredom himself.

Eventually, Mrs Herrald picked up a little silver bell and rang it.  Instantly, so quickly that she must have been waiting just outside in the hall, Mabel opened the parlour door and wheeled in a tea trolley.  Its squeak as it rolled over the Indian carpet quite explained the odd noise earlier.

Compared with tea at home, the trolley made a sad show.  It bore a plate of sandwiches and an undersized Victoria sponge.  Lucy had no great hopes of the cake.  There was no sugar on top; and it was rather flat.  Only a faint line of jam separated the layers; and she suspected it was eggless, possibly made with paraffin, and almost certainly dry as sawdust.  Nevertheless, cake was cake.  As for the sandwiches, they had clearly been made with great care from charmingly thin-cut bread with the crusts off.  (Probably, there would be bread-pudding in the future of those crusts, for they could not possibly be wasted.)  Sadly, the filling was barely more than a smear, and tasted only a little of fish and somewhat of potato.

The old lady took two dainty squares; and Lucy tucked into the rest.  When she finished the last sandwich, she expected to see her hostess reach for the pearl-handled cake knife to cut frugal wedges for the waiting plates.  Instead, she reached again for the bell.  At the tinkle, the door opened awkwardly, pushed by Mabel’s knee; and she came in, holding a domed silver dish about six inches across.  It had to be hot, for she had swathed its base in a blue-bordered tea towel to protect her hands.  “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed as she approached the two of them, and made a quick side-step to pick up a carved wooden trivet, gripping it between the outer fingers of one hand.  This she laid down on the table by her mistress; and then, ceremoniously, she placed the domed dish upon it.  “There, mum,” she said.  “And half a week’s rations, too.”  With which comment she left, closing the door behind her.

Mrs Herrald lifted the handle of the dome and set it aside.  To Lucy’s astonished eyes, there lay revealed four large crumpets, golden with dripping melted butter.

“Oh!” she exclaimed.  “This is even better than tea with Mr Tumnus!”

As her eyes were on the serving dish, she did not see that her words piqued the interest of her hostess.  All the old lady actually said was, “Mabel has always made excellent crumpets.”  With a satisfied little smile, she used a silver server to dish out one apiece, handed a plate over to Lucy, and offered salt and pepper should her guest like her crumpet savoury.  (Lucy declined.)  Then, she put the domed lid back on, so that the hot water in the base of the dish could keep their second crumpets warm.

“I do hope Mabel made half a dozen, as I told her,” Mrs Herrald said.  “She really should have a pair for her own tea.”  And then, “Do start, my dear.”

The butter dripped a bit as Lucy bit in.  With a mumbled excuse-me, she didn’t reach for her napkin but licked down her chin, and then caught the longest drip on her finger and licked it.  Then she blushed.

“Quite right,” said the old lady, who had used a knife and fork.  “One should never waste good butter.”

Only after they had blissfully finished their seconds did the matter of Mr Tumnus come up again.  “An odd name,” said Mrs Herrald carefully.  “Is he a foreign gentleman?”

“Sort of, I suppose,” said Lucy cautiously.

“A friend of your parents’, perhaps?”

“Not really,” said Lucy.

“Someone Professor Kirke knows?”

“Well, he knows _of_ him,” said Lucy carefully.  “Because we told him, you see.  Or, at least, I told the others; and then Peter and Susan told him; and then, after we all came back from Narnia, we told him everything.  That,” she added, “was last summer, when we stayed at the Professor’s house in the country.  Before we came back to Oxford, that is to say.  Or _to_ Oxford in my case, since I’ve never been here before.”

“Indeed,” said the old lady, who was quite familiar with geography (and had a pair of globes in the corner of the room as well as an atlas in one of her bookcases).  She picked up the big cake knife and held it poised above the Victoria sponge.  “I told my own story to a Professor once.”  She paused at that point to ask, “How large a slice do you want, my dear?”

Lucy was astonished to hear herself say, “No, I think I’d rather not, thank you,” and only belatedly realized that she did, in fact, prefer the glory of the crumpets to remain unsullied by the disappointment of the Victoria sponge.

“Yes, I think you’re right,” said her hostess.  “Not to worry.  It’ll keep till tomorrow.”  She put down the knife and picked up the tea pot.  “I’ll just freshen my cup, I think.  And you?”

Lucy wordlessly passed over her own teacup (remembering to lift it by the saucer and not have it refilled saucerless by the handle).  “Thank you,” she said as it was returned, already milked and sugared.

“So, as I was saying,” said Mrs Herrald, “my own story—yes, I told it to Mr Dodgson, who was such a nice man.  Would you like to see a photograph?”

A little puzzled as to why she might want to see a snap of a man she’d never heard of, Lucy went over to a large bookcase and, as directed, took a leather bound album from a lower shelf.  Then, she stood by the old lady’s shoulder while the black pages were leafed through until the right picture was found.

“You may have trouble believing it,” Mrs Herrald said, pointing at it, “but that’s what I looked like, many years ago when I was not much older than you.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Lucy.  “You look just like Alice in Wonderland!”

This was true for, even though the photograph was brownish and faded, it could clearly be seen that, in her childhood, Mrs Herrald had had long fair hair held back by a band (what today we call an “Alice band”).

“Mr Tenniel saw Mr Dodgson’s photographs,” said the old lady, with more than a little satisfaction.  “I dare say he also saw the Liddell girl’s; but he chose to base the pictures on me—as indeed he should.”

It took a moment for the import of her words to sink in.  (Even then Lucy did not quite grasp who “Mr Dodgson” and “Mr Tenniel” were.  Later, when she got home, the Professor explained to her.)  “You mean _you_ were the model for Alice in Wonderland!” she exclaimed.

“I _am_ Alice in Wonderland,” said Mrs Herrald, with great dignity.  “Or, at least, I am the Alice who went to Wonderland.  The first time, I went through a mole hill in the garden—not that anyone believed me when I came back.”  (Lucy sympathized.)  “I told Mr Dodgson when he came to tea in the nursery; and he was very interested.”  The old lady paused, thoughtfully.  “I don’t think he believed me either,” she admitted, “but he was very polite about it, and heard all the details.  Later, he recounted the story to another little girl—to amuse her, you know—and then wrote it all up in a book.”

“ _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,_ ” said Lucy, nodding.  “We have a copy at home.  And the Professor has one, too”

“Mr Dodgson changed things a bit,” said the old lady.  “But the gist of the story remains the same.”

“Did you go through the looking-glass, too?” Lucy asked.

“I did indeed,” said Alice proudly.

Lucy followed the direction of her eyes to the elaborately-framed mirror above the mantel.  “That’s the actual—?  Oh, my!”  Eagerly, she started towards it, and then paused to ask permission.

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Alice, a little amused.

Lucy stood on tiptoe to stare into the glass (which showed her only her own image), and traced with her finger the curlicues carved into the frame.

“I’m afraid it won’t take you through to the other side,” said Alice.  She sounded almost apologetic.

“Does Professor Kirke know?” asked Lucy, turning round.

“Yes, of course. Why do you think he suggested I invite you here for tea?  He thought perhaps, with your brothers and sister back at school, you might like to have someone to talk to—someone who had a somewhat similar experience herself, albeit many years ago.”

“Yes,” said Lucy eagerly.  She turned back to the frame to give it a final pet, and then came back to sit down and drink a little of her tea before it got cold.  “Would you like to hear about Mr Tumnus?” she asked.  “Or did Professor Kirke tell you?”

“Oh, he told me very little.  He left that for you.”  Alice paused.  “Who is Mr Tumnus, if I may ask?  He gave you tea, I gather.”

“He’s a faun,” said Lucy.  Then, fearing misunderstanding, she said quickly, “Not a deer-type fawn with a W.  A faun with goat’s legs and a U.”

Alice looked fascinated.  “I never met a faun,” she said.  “Though it does suggest that other people have done so in the past, doesn’t it?  How else would the Greeks have the story of them?”  She paused for a moment and then asked, “Do _you_ have any photographs?”

“No,” said Lucy regretfully.  ”None of us has a camera, not even Peter.  Our father has a box Brownie; but it’s in London.  Anyway, I’m pretty sure that we wouldn’t have had it with us.  It’s not as though we _knew_ that we were going to another world.  It just happened!”

“Yes, it’s like that, isn’t it?”  Alice nodded.  “How did you get to … the place where he lives?  Narmia did you call it?”

“Narnia,” said Lucy.  “With an N.”  Then, after a moment, she corrected, “Two Ns.”  (The Professor was rubbing off.)  “Through the back of the big wardrobe in the spare room.  You walk through, past the coats, and there’s no back to it.  You find yourself in a wood, in Lantern Waste.  Except,” and her face fell, “it doesn’t work any more.”

“No,” said Alice (and the same sad tone was in her own voice), “no, it never does work again.”

“But you had two trips,” said Lucy thoughtfully.  “Perhaps I’ll get another, some time in the future.  It would,” she said wistfully, “be wonderful to go back to Narnia.”

“You may have another journey, of course—I did—but you’ll never have the _same_ trip again.”

Lucy bit her lip.

“And actually,” said Alice, with a twinkle, “I had _three_ trips, if we’re counting.  I never had the chance to tell Mr Dodgson that story.  My mother decided it would be better if he didn’t come to tea any more.  I think, though, that Professor Kirke should have no objections to you coming here again. Though,” and she twinkled again, “I’m afraid I shan’t always be able to offer you crumpets.”

“There’s a war on,” said Lucy understandingly.  It had, after all, been said so often by others to her.

The clock on the mantel gave the three-quarter chime.  Alice looked up automatically; and then sighed.  “Oh, dear, it’s nearly six.”

“It is?” Lucy twisted round to look. She was startled:  the visit had, in the end, passed so quickly.

“The Professor will be coming for you,” said Alice.  “I’m so sorry.  I would have liked to hear more about Narnia.”  Then she brightened, “But there’s always next time.”

“Next time,” Lucy agreed.  “You really need to know all about Aslan—well, not that anyone can possibly know _all_ about Aslan!—and the Beavers, and the White Witch who made it always winter and never Christmas.  And the Stone Table, and the battles, and how we became Kings and Queens in Narnia.”

“Kings and Queens,” said Alice reminiscently.  “Now I have my own stories about _them_.  Though,” she added hastily, “I’m sure you were quite different.”

“Quite different,” said Lucy firmly.  “But, even though I’ve read the books, you must tell me all about the _real_ Queen of Hearts.  And the real Red and White Queens, too.”

“No, next time you come to tea, I’ll tell you all about my third Adventure in Wonderland.  I’ve never told anyone; and it’s a story that deserves to be heard.”

Lucy nodded enthusiastically.

There was a loud clear knock at the door.  “That’ll be Professor Kirke to collect you,” said Alice with a sigh.

“It’s been lovely meeting you,” said Lucy, hastily recalling her manners.  “Because you’re Alice, of course, and it's wonderful to meet you for real; but also the crumpets.  They were _gorgeous_ crumpets.”

“Thank you,” said Alice gravely.  “They _were_ gorgeous crumpets; and I’ll tell Mabel you said so.”  Footsteps could be heard in the hall.  “Or you can tell her yourself.”  She reached for her stick and slowly, painfully, hauled herself out of her chair.

“Oh, don’t get up!” cried Lucy.

“No, no,” said Mrs Herrald.  “I’ll see you to the door.”  Slowly, she made her way across the parlour.

Biting her lip, Lucy followed, matching her steps to the old lady’s speed.  From the hall could be heard the heavy sound of the door being opened, and Professor Kirke speaking briefly before stepping inside.

Mrs Herrald rested her weight on her stick.  Her hand trembled a little as she reached out for the doorknob.  Lucy almost pushed past to do it for her; but that would have been impolite.  They could hear, on the other side of the door, Mabel’s voice saying, “I’ll show you in, Professor.”

Mrs Herrald turned the knob and opened the door.  Beyond should have been an elderly Indian carpet and a floor of red tile.  Instead, framed by the white-painted jambs, a sward of mown grass swept off to a blue horizon.  Of Mabel and Professor Kirke there was no sign.

“Oh!” said Lucy.

“That’s not Wonderland,” said Alice.

“It’s not Narnia, either.”

They looked at each other.

“Shall we?” asked Alice.

Behind them, the clock began to chime the hour.

“Should we?” said Lucy.  “I’m supposed to be going home at six.”

“Oh,” said Alice, with a glance over her shoulder at the clock.  “I think we’ll be home in time.  I’ve done this before, you know.  So have you.”  She smiled.  “I’m sure we’ll be home by six.”

And they stepped through the doorway.


End file.
